But, you see, I’m smirched. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. ‘Oh, ah. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands.
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